The days when the flower pot shatters
because a gust of wind blows too strongly,
and I am left with dirt and ceramic
at my feet, my orchids gone,
I collect the shattered pot
in the palm of my hand,
avoiding the sharp edges.
I think about the Frenchman
serving tables, carrying dirty,
porcelain, holding the remnants
of a meal in his arms. When they
dropped
and everyone turned as if
they never heard glass shatter
or that shattered glass meant
the end of the world.
Remember what he said.
As he bent over to pick up the big pieces,
avoiding the sharp edges.
La vie est anti-fragile.
It brings itself back together,
like skin,
suturing all its wounds.
Yet I still try to escape things I can’t see,
as if you can lose everything to air.
-Daniella Sanchez
